Navigating the Fog of Autistic Overwhelm and Depression

Navigating the Fog of Autistic Overwhelm and Depression

Have you ever felt it? That sudden change in the weather inside your own head. One moment you’re moving through your day, and the next… you’re surrounded by a thick, soupy fog. It’s a feeling so many of us know, that disorienting state of autistic overwhelm and depression that muffles sound, chills you, and makes the path forward impossible to see. All you can do is stand still, feeling utterly lost.

So, this weekend was… a lot. I feel like I’ve taken a leap off a cliff and landed somewhere I recognise all too well. I’m no stranger to this land, this intersection of anxiety, exhaustion, and that deep, heavy fog. But knowing the landscape doesn’t make it any less disorienting.

It was one of those weekends where the complexity of life just felt too much. Take a fairly grumpy three-year-old who is just getting over another bug, and add a ten-year-old who is feeling off-balance emotionally, acting out with a selfishness that isn’t really him. Add two tired dads who were desperately hoping for just a little time to breathe. And then, just for good measure, throw in a level of heat none of us can handle and a full moon (and yes, I genuinely believe it makes a difference).

The result? I’ve been snappy. I’ve been shouty at times. And then, of course, I’ve spent a prolonged period beating myself up, disappointed that, yet again, I’m not coping as well as I feel I ‘should’ be.

An Ocean of Input: The Autistic Brain Under Pressure

If you’re autistic, you probably know this land, too. And it’s so important to say this out loud: this isn’t a character flaw. It’s not a failure of resilience. It’s about our wiring. Our brains process the world with an incredible intensity. The constant hum of the fridge, the texture of our clothes, the emotional temperature of a room, the unspoken tension between two people – we take it all in.

Most of the time, we manage. We have systems, masks, and routines. But when stressors pile up – like a child’s persistent whining, unexpected changes, or the oppressive weight of a hot, humid day – our capacity shrinks. That internal battery, which was already on low power, suddenly drains completely. There’s just nothing left.

The Downward Spiral: From Rumination to Meltdown

And this is where that awful feeling of beating yourself up comes in. It has a name: rumination. It’s the brain getting stuck in a loop, replaying the moment you snapped, picking it apart, judging it. It’s a common co-traveller with anxiety, and for many of us on the spectrum, it’s the voice that generates the fog. This cycle is the very engine of autistic overwhelm and depression; it turns a moment of dysregulation into a whole day (or weekend) of feeling worthless, paving the way for a full autistic meltdown.

A Single Step in the Mist: Finding a Path to Regulate

So what do you do when you’re in the thick of it, when every nerve feels frayed and the fog is enveloping you? The honest answer is that there’s no magic wand. But there are small, deliberate acts of self-preservation. For me, one of those was simply saying, “I need to go for a walk. On my own.”

It wasn’t about solving anything. It was about creating space. It was about removing myself from the environment that was causing the sensory and emotional overload. The simple rhythm of my feet on the pavement, the feeling of the air (even if it was too warm), the focus on just one thing – moving forward – was enough to turn the volume down, just a little.

Allowing ourselves time to regulate isn’t an indulgence; it’s a necessity. We have to know, and accept, that it isn’t just going to happen on its own. We have to create the conditions for it.

The Weight of Worlds: Autism, Parenthood, and Shared Struggles

But there’s another layer to this, isn’t there? Being a parent is hard. I think being an autistic parent is harder. And being the autistic parent of a child who also has difficulty regulating their emotions… well, that’s a unique kind of challenge.

Later in the day, after my walk, I sat down with my ten-year-old. I talked to him about his feelings, about the big, messy emotions that were making him argumentative. And as I listened, I accepted the way he was feeling, because I could absolutely relate.

I told him, “I’m feeling really sad and overwhelmed today, too. It makes me grumpy, and I’m sorry I was shouty earlier.”

In that moment, something shifted. It wasn’t about a parent perfectly fixing a child’s behaviour. It was about two human beings, both struggling with the intensity of the world, acknowledging that imperfection in each other. It was a moment of messy, real co-regulation – a shared lifeline in the fog.

Writing Myself a Lifeline

That conversation was one anchor. Another, for me, is writing. When my thoughts are swirling in that destructive, ruminating pattern, getting them out of my head and onto a page can be transformative.

Sometimes it’s just journaling – a chaotic brain-dump of all the feelings. Other times, I find it helpful to write a letter to myself, specifically to the me in that overwhelmed, dysregulated moment. Not with judgement, but with the care I’d offer a dear friend. “It’s okay,” it might say. “This is incredibly hard. You’re processing so much right now. Be gentle.”

It’s an act of conscious self-compassion, a way to build the supportive inner voice that our autistic brains often struggle to find on their own.

The fog from this weekend hasn’t completely lifted, but there are patches of blue sky. It’s a reminder that this is a journey, a continuous process of learning how to navigate our own internal weather systems. We won’t always get it right, but we can always choose to take one small step, to offer one kind word to ourselves, or to connect with someone else who is also trying to find their way through the fog of autistic overwhelm and depression.

And in this complex, beautiful, and often overwhelming life, that is more than enough.